Luna Rodrigues

“Big sis, look at this!”

“Look at you, you did so well.” Luna’s voice was soft, touched with warmth, as she crouched slightly to meet the little girl's beaming face. Her brown eyes sparkled, catching the late afternoon light as she gently took the paper offered to her.

Yuki’s fingers, small and slightly smudged with colored pencil, held the drawing with pride. The picture—sunlight streaming through the vibrant green leaves of the maple trees at Take Shrine—was rough around the edges, still childlike, but brimming with heart and surprising nuance.

“It’s all because you taught me how to draw!”

“No, it’s because you tried your best,” Luna smiled, cradling the child’s hand in hers. There was something fragile yet fierce in Yuki’s grip that reminded Luna of herself—chalk dust on her fingers, bent over cracked cobblestones in Cantagalo, painting worlds that didn’t exist yet.

But Hiroshima was different. Here, the air was clean, the streets lined with quiet promise rather than threats. No turf wars. No shouting at night. No sudden bursts of gunfire or sirens. Just the rustling of trees and the hum of cicadas. A stillness that was both unfamiliar and comforting.

“Big sis...”

Yuki’s soft voice snapped Luna out of her thoughts.

“Yes, dear?”

“I-I don’t feel too well...”

The child’s small frame stiffened as her hand clutched at her shirt, her breaths becoming shallow and fast.

“Wait, wait—Yuki?”

Panic flared in Luna’s chest as Yuki’s knees gave way. The drawing floated from her hand as her body crumpled toward the grass.

“Yuki?! YUKI!”

---

“Luna? Hello—Earth to Luna?”

The storeroom was bathed in a tired yellow glow from the flickering overhead light. The distant hum of the refrigerator buzzed like white noise in a quiet void, while a faint citrus-scented cleaner lingered in the air, blending with the earthy chill rolling off the open cooler.

Mio’s fingers gave Luna’s arm a gentle but firm squeeze, pulling her out of her daze. Luna blinked, disoriented for a heartbeat, her fingers still clutched around the lip of a cardboard box filled with six slick, sweating bottles of Coke.

“Girl, you okay?” Mio asked again, her tone warm, soft—a natural contrast to the artificial chill of the cooler behind them. Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, a few wisps framing her flushed cheeks. Even in fluorescent light, she glowed with that bright, unbothered energy Luna had come to find strangely reassuring.

“Ah, uhm... yeah. Just spaced out,” Luna muttered. Her voice was thin, like breath fog on glass.

“You look like you got steamrolled by a delivery truck. Did you even sleep?”

Luna forced a chuckle, shaking her head as she helped Mio slide the Coke bottles into the merchandiser, the cold stinging her fingertips.

“Why are you even back here?”

“Come on, it’s Hiroshima. You think people are queuing for convenience store bentos at 11 PM? This place turns into a ghost town after dark. We’re not in Shibuya.”

“Never been to Tokyo, so I’ll take your word for it.” Luna smiled faintly, brushing the condensation off her hands.

Mio tilted her head, the corners of her mouth curling upward in mock exasperation. “Still. You gotta let go of some of those part-time gigs. They’re reinstating your scholarship, aren’t they?”

“Next semester,” Luna replied, her voice quieting.

“It’s messed up they suspended it at all. Like, you didn’t even do anything.” Mio’s voice dropped, tone edged with irritation as she folded the empty carton and cracked open a new box. “The whole thing was crap.”

“Ouch,” she yelped suddenly, pulling her hand back from the frosty blast of the fridge’s vents.

“Careful of the air pockets,” Luna murmured with a soft laugh, instinctively tugging Mio’s hand away from the icy corner.

“But seriously,” Mio continued, shaking off the cold, “you think someone who knows their craft would scribble on a wall like that? That thing was a mess. Not even abstract. It looked like a toddler with a spray can went nuts.”

Luna chuckled as Mio flailed her arms dramatically, mimicking the wild, chaotic strokes of the vandalism on the city hall. “You can’t really blame them. Most people here don’t know street art from random graffiti. It’s rare in Japan. To them, it’s just noise on a wall.” Her voice softened. “Still, thank you. For getting angry on my behalf.”

“You bet.” Mio smiled, her eyes crinkling gently as she slid the last bottle into place. “Look at the time. Go get changed and head home.”

“You sure? What about you?”

“Miyamoto called in. Again. So I’m stuck with a double shift. Spent too much on new easels anyway, so I guess it’s divine punishment.” She placed a hand on her hip, striking a mock-heroic pose.

Luna shook her head with a small smile. “Just don’t burn yourself out.”

“Says the girl juggling three jobs,” Mio shot back with a smirk. “And don’t think I didn’t see your bag. Spray cans?”

Luna’s smile faltered for just a moment. “Yeah. Just... late-night project.”

“Heh. Be careful. And send me a message or something when you’re done.” Mio pulled out her phone, her fingers tapping idly. “I’ll need something to keep me awake for the next six hours.”

“Tapple, maybe?” Luna teased, raising an eyebrow.

“God, screw you.” Mio laughed, waving her hand dismissively, her giggle bouncing lightly off the tiled storeroom walls like a charm against the midnight silence.

---

The cool night air bit gently at Luna’s skin as she stepped out of the convenience store’s back door, her breath briefly visible in the humid shimmer of summer. The metallic clatter of the lock slipping shut behind her was swallowed by the stillness outside. Hiroshima at night was a ghost—quiet, deliberate, and oddly pristine. The broken flicker of a streetlamp sputtered above like a dying firefly, casting fractured shadows over the cracked sidewalk.

Luna adjusted the black knit cap on her head and zipped her leather jacket halfway, the soft creak of the material echoing slightly as she moved. From her bag came the muffled clink of spray cans. Familiar. Reassuring.

A voice slurred behind her, low and heavy with sake.

"Hey, wanna have some fun?"

She didn’t turn. The man’s steps staggered behind her like a broken rhythm, but she kept hers steady, sharp. Her boots tapped against the wet asphalt with quiet defiance.

She rounded the corner.

“Tsk...” hissed a voice from the shadows. A woman leaned under a neon sign that buzzed weakly, its kanji half-dead in light. Lips stained red, skirt barely clinging to her hips, a cigarette dangling between painted nails.

“Stay away from this area. Steal my business, and even your embassy won’t be able to save you.”

Luna didn’t flinch. She didn’t look. She just walked.

Back in Cantagalo, that silence kept her alive. Here in Japan, it served her just as well. Her mother’s voice echoed in her ears, as if summoned by instinct: "Baixe os olhos, minha filha. Nunca devolva o olhar. Só quem sobrevive tem chance de mudar." (Keep your eyes down, my daughter. Never look back. Only those who survive can change the future.)

That voice—soft, trembling with fatigue from night shifts, but unyielding—was carved deep inside Luna. It had brought her here, 16,000 kilometers from home, where she still wasn’t quite safe, but perhaps, just maybe, she could find peace.

The towering silhouette of Juntendo Children’s Hospital emerged between power lines and shuttered clinics. It loomed in quiet vigilance, a rare place of compassion in a world that often looked away.

But Luna didn’t approach the glowing entrance—visiting hours had long ended. Instead, she slipped into the side streets, her steps slowing as she reached a mostly forgotten parking lot, bordered by crumbling fencing and weeds.

She stopped in front of a weather-worn brick wall. Its surface was chipped, pitted by years of sun and rain. She ran her fingertips across it, feeling the texture—rough, imperfect. Real.

“Decent enough...” she murmured, her gaze drifting upward.

One window glowed faintly in the third floor above—Yuki’s room. Luna had stood beside her there once, tiny fingers clutching her own as they looked out this very direction.

Carefully, Luna set her bag down. The zipper opened with a hushed rasp. Inside: her arsenal. Spray cans, gloves, mask, brushes, a small towel. Familiar tools.

She slipped the mask on. A deep breath. The hiss of the nozzle broke the silence.

Color bled into the wall—sunlight arcing behind clouds, meadows of soft green, children running with ribbons trailing from their hands. And finally, hydrangeas. Dozens of them. Layered with depth, luminous with purples, blues, and pinks.

Yuki had always loved them. She had described them in vivid detail, but she had never seen them outside a picture book. Her heart couldn’t handle field trips.

But now, maybe, from her window, she could.

---

The old clock mounted crookedly on the far wall of the lot ticked in irregular beats, the sound faint but constant, like a heartbeat echoing across the empty expanse. The air was cool and damp, tinged with the faint, earthy scent of moss clinging to the brick and the oily residue of old asphalt baking under long-forgotten sun.

Luna’s arms ached, fingers stained with color, but she barely noticed. Her world narrowed to the mural before her—blues and yellows glowing beneath the flickering light, the outlines of children in motion, petals bursting from invisible breezes. It wasn’t just a painting anymore. It was a message. A wish. A promise.

She stepped back, breath shallow, her eyes scanning the composition. Foreground, background, negative space—all woven together like a memory frozen in pigment. At the center: a girl. Small, radiant, her arms stretched toward the sky as hydrangeas bloomed around her like stars. Yuki.

“Só mais um toque...” Luna murmured beneath her breath, the Portuguese slipping from her tongue like a prayer. Just one more touch.

She moved to adjust a final detail—but her boot clipped an empty canister.

The sharp metallic clink rang out, ricocheting against the concrete and disappearing into the shadows.

“Shit...” Luna hissed.

Her eyes darted to the can’s final resting place—and stopped.

A pair of shoes. Or maybe heels. Polished leather or lacquered toe, she wasn’t sure. What mattered was the silhouette just meters ahead, framed by the mural’s glow.

Someone was there. Watching.

Her breath caught. The mask muffled her next words.

“O-oh god...!” she stammered, tearing the mask down. Her voice cracked in the cool air. “S-since when...? No wait—this isn’t what it looks like! I... I swear, I wasn’t—this is...”